The Zero Option

by David Rollins

  Akiko stood up and gathered her shoulder bag. ‘This was a waste of time, obviously. Your father misjudged you.’

  ‘So, what? You’re just going to go back to Japan now?’

  ‘What do you care? It’s not your problem, remember?’

  Ben took a deep breath. ‘Maybe it would help if I knew what all this was about.’

  ‘Look it up on the internet,’ Akiko said as she opened the door.

  Ben didn’t want her to leave like this, so full of anger. And perhaps because she had come such a long way to see him, he told himself, he owed it to her to at least hear the story. He hopped off the bench and put his hand on the door, pressing it closed.

  ‘C’mon . . . what happened to that plane? Tell me. Maybe, once I know, something will click.’

  ‘Why should I bother? You don’t care. You don’t want to spoil the party.’

  ‘They really found nothing of KAL 007? No wreckage at all?’

  Akiko hesitated. She fought a strong desire to run from the room, catch a plane back to Tokyo and go back to teaching. But if you walk out that door, she told herself, it will be over. All hope of knowing what really happened will end. Perhaps if this man knew the facts, something good might come of it. Yuudai Suzuki had believed that Ben would help find the truth. And so had Ben’s father. There was a reason for his involvement, even if he couldn’t see it. Even if she couldn’t see it.

  She walked back to the couch, opened her bag and pulled out her scrapbook. It was the size of a phone book and twice as thick. She sat, let it drop onto the cushion and then leaned over to flick through the pages. Ben took a seat beside her.

  ‘None of the ships or planes conducting the search found anything—or at least admitted to finding anything,’ she said, flicking through until she found what she was looking for—a newspaper article showing a Russian MiG fighter buzzing a ship flying the Japanese flag. ‘There were 269 people on board, but only a couple of bodies washed up on Hokkaido beaches, and they were unidentifiable. A little wreckage also washed up—a few bits and pieces.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem likely for a plane the size of a 747.’

  ‘There were many things about the crash that didn’t seem likely.’

  ‘Did the Russians really shoot it down?’

  ‘You don’t know anything about this, do you?’

  ‘Why should I? It happened the day I was born.’

  ‘Yes, you told me,’ she said.

  ‘Do you think that’s somehow significant?’

  She shrugged and flicked through more pages until she found a map, which had been folded and unfolded so many times over the years that the paper had worn out at the creases. ‘No. An interesting coincidence, perhaps.’

  The map showed the world from Alaska to Japan, and took in a large chunk of the Bering Sea and the northern Pacific Ocean. The track KAL 007 had taken over the Soviet Union was marked on it, as was its designated route much further south, and other points of interest. There was a lot of divergence between the two tracks, up to 300 miles at one point.

  ‘Korean Air Lines Flight 007 was a regular passenger service flying between Anchorage and Seoul,’ Akiko said, tracing the route with her finger. ‘For some reason that no one has ever explained satisfactorily, it flew hundreds of miles off course and headed to the north over Soviet Kamchatka.’

  ‘747s don’t fly hundreds of miles off course—not even the ones back then.’

  ‘It flew over a secret Soviet submarine base and continued back into international airspace until it reached Soviet Sakhalin Island. This time, the Russians were waiting for it. They claimed the airliner maneuvered to avoid its ground anti-aircraft defenses, and then again when its interceptors caught it. They said they thought it was a spy plane.’

  On the map, the plane’s demise was marked by a red, yellow and white flash.

  ‘Why did they think that?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t answer radio calls. It was also flying with its lights off and behaving strangely—not like a civilian plane. The Russians fired two missiles and shot it down. At first the Japanese authorities thought the airliner had crashed into the water east of Hokkaido. There was a lot of confusion. No one knew for sure where it actually came down. There was even a report that it landed safely on Sakhalin Island.’

  ‘Like it says in your letter.’

  ‘Yes, but the Russians denied it. And they were actively searching the waters off a place called Moneron Island, so that’s where everyone sent their ships. But the Russians wouldn’t let the Japanese or American ships search its waters. They even dropped pingers on the sea floor to distract the other boats. Both sides were more interested in locating the black boxes than they were in finding any possible survivors.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it was the Cold War. Each side wanted to prove that the other was at fault. The Americans blamed the Russians for killing innocent civilians. The Russians blamed the Americans for using civilians as the cover for a CIA mission. The Russians eventually returned seventy-six items to the relatives of the passengers—things they said had washed up on Sakhalin. When Soviet divers were interviewed years later, they said they investigated the wreckage a couple of weeks after the crash and found no luggage, no bodies or even pieces of bodies—and not a single life jacket.’

  ‘That’s spooky,’ said Ben.

  He took over from Akiko and became absorbed in going back and forth through the clippings, some of which were in Japanese while others were in English.

  ‘The Soviet divers said that they believed the plane had been dragged to the site and blown up.’

  ‘What about the black boxes. Were they found?’

  Akiko gave a wry smile. ‘There was a rumor that the CIA had them, and that they’d been classified in the interests of national security and would never be released. But then Boris Yeltsin turned up with the black box tapes at a press conference in 1993 and handed them over.’

  ‘And did the tapes clear up the mystery?’

  ‘No. They were analyzed and many experts thought they’d been tampered with. Some of the information found on the flight data recorder seemed to have come from another flight entirely.’

  ‘Your letter is starting to make more and more sense.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the RC-135? How was that involved?’

  ‘Do you know what ghosting is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a maneuver where two planes fly so close together that their radar returns merge. That night there was an RC-135, a plane called a Cobra Ball, flying reconnaissance over the Bering Sea.’ Akiko turned to another map that, according to the caption, had originally been printed in the New York Times. The map showed the track of the RC flying a figure-eight pattern intersecting with 007’s course. ‘The Russians said it rendezvoused with KAL 007 on the edge of the buffer zone between Russia and America. The two planes flew so close together that Soviet ground radar operators thought they were looking at just one plane. Then the blip separated into two—one flew away while the other kept coming. The Soviets thought the aircraft headed for their territory was the RC.’

  Ben snorted quietly. ‘It’s hard to believe something like this happened.’

  ‘It happened.’

  A buzzer rang. Ben went out to investigate and came back with take-out.

  ‘I hope you like sushi,’ he said, unpacking it.

  ‘I prefer Italian.’

  ‘Next time. So, this RC-135 . . .’ he went on.

  ‘There is so much you don’t know. Please, before you make up your mind about helping me or not, do me one small favor.’

  ‘What?’

  She closed the book with a thud, lifted it up and dropped it in Ben’s lap.

  ‘Read.’

  January 15, 2012

  Saint Petersburg, Russia, USSR. The weather was mild, thought Valentin Korolenko. He guessed at the temperature. No lower than minus ten degrees Celsius. And it was mid-winter! Definitely, the world was wa
rming. The retired major general of the Federal Security Service and KGB nevertheless tied the fur flaps of his ushanka under his chin—not easy to do with thick, gloved fingers, despite all the years of practice—and lifted up the collar of his padded coat. A young couple sauntered past, lovers arm in arm. The man was dressed in nothing but jeans and a sweater. No gloves and no ushanka. You never used to feel the cold either, he told himself. One’s blood became lazy with age.

  Czar, a golden retriever and his sole companion these days, snuffled at the base of a tree. The dog lifted a leg on it before cantering on a few paces, tongue hanging over his lower jaw like a wet pink blanket.

  Korolenko started walking again, pulling on the leash, angling Czar back toward the Chesma Church, a beautiful old strawberry-sorbet-colored building with white vertical stripes, as familiar as an old friend. The grounds were small, but it was still his favorite place, even though tourists often swarmed here like flies over fresh wounds.

  ‘Czar! Come,’ he commanded, giving the long leash a firm tug to discourage the dog from mounting a male German shepherd, the tip of Czar’s organ the color of an unlit match.

  A bus pulled up and disgorged a load of tourists who milled about the church’s forecourt, their guide speaking loudly in English as she threw her voice over their heads. ‘Ah, the flies,’ Korolenko called out in Russian, giving them all a wave, chuckling to himself as half a dozen waved back.

  How the motherland has changed, he observed, and not all for the better. There was so little respect these days, though the Kremlin, still drenched in oil money, had reasserted itself. At last.

  Czar bolted after a pigeon pecking at crumbs in the grass, practically wrenching off Korolenko’s arm and aggravating the mild arthritis in his hands. He returned the favor with interest, pulling back hard on the leash. ‘Czar! Stop!’

  The animal coughed and swallowed a couple of times and looked up at him with warm brown eyes, an apparent smile on his panting jaws. Korolenko forgot his anger. He removed a glove, patted the dog’s head and took a treat from his pocket. ‘There, Czar. Good boy.’ The dog snatched it, leaving slobber on his hand, which he wiped on a handkerchief.

  It was time to go home. Enough exercise for the day. He took the path off to the right, as he always did when he came here, the force of habit mixed with expectation. It had been almost a year since he’d last seen the tin propped against the base of the tree—the agreed sign established more than twenty years ago; a connection to powerful friends, friends with money. Korolenko remembered the day in the Parisian park clearly.

  It had started when US$50,000, plus a return ticket to the French capital, arrived at his door. On that day, with the Soviet empire collapsing around his ears, his double life had begun. The offer had caught him when he was vulnerable, at his weakest. The state hadn’t paid him for six months because the state, effectively, had ceased to exist. It was a lifeline when he’d desperately needed one.

  The meeting in Paris with no less than the assistant director of the CIA and his aide had gone well, and he was presented with another pregnant envelope containing US$50,000. There were conditions that came with the payments, of course. As a high-placed officer in the KGB Fifth Directorate, he had to move across to the new organization being formed—the FSB. If he succeeded, his role was to see that all foreign nationals held on Russian soil were never released. The reward for this service would be a steady stream of money, making him rich in a land of paupers.

  Korolenko had held up his part of the bargain and, as the years passed, the payments had continued. The contact had always been sporadic, but for the past twelve months it had all but ceased. Soon, too, the payments would also stop, he could feel it in his . . .

  Korolenko swallowed. The tin! The signal. It was propped exactly as it should be—upside down. He counted the trees. Yes, it was the correct tree, third from the fence. He turned on his heels and hurried toward the milling tourists. After tying Czar’s leash around the base of a young tree, he pushed his way through the crowd and arrived at the pink-and-white-striped church’s entrance just as the attendant, a fat old babushka with a patchy gray mustache, was telling the tourists that the Chesma was closing for the day.

  ‘No, no . . . I must say a prayer,’ Korolenko insisted. ‘Please . . .’

  The fact that he was wearing an old Soviet-era coat and was obviously Russian overcame the old woman’s reluctance. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, then rudely closed the door in the faces of the crowd.

  Although an atheist, Valentin Korolenko crossed himself, in the event that he was being watched, and hurried around the pillar to the piano pushed into a corner. Behind it was a coat rack with a number of hooks. On the third hook from the left hung a woman’s old black winter jacket. He removed a glove and felt for the front right-hand pocket, then thrust his hand inside and dug around for the prayer book he knew would be there. He pulled it out and moved across to the altar. Getting down on one knee, he crossed himself again and then stood, head bent, in front of the painted Christ. Using his body as a screen from the old woman closing down the souvenir stall by the front door, he opened the prayer book to page thirty. There, wedged in the spine of the book, was a cigarette paper.

  He put on his reading glasses and angled the book at the overhead light. The old thrill flooded through him, tingling in his scrotum and across his shoulders. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. There was nothing written on it. His heart thudded with concern, his worst fear realized. He pinched the thin rice paper between thumb and forefinger and turned it over, just to make certain. There was nothing written on the reverse, either.

  ‘Govno!’ he swore under his breath. Shit!

  The cigarette paper was utterly and completely blank. The signal that the relationship, a regular and significant source of income, had come to an end. The excitement he’d felt evaporated, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. There would be no more new Mercedes.

  January 16, 2012

  Key West, Florida. Cecilia was laughing at something or someone—the wall blocked Ben’s view. He stuck his head around the corner. Tex Mitchell was leaning against the counter, entertaining her. The Village People cowboy outfit was gone and the guy was almost unrecognizable. What the hell was he doing here?

  ‘Hey, Ben,’ Cecilia called out when she heard the door open. ‘Come and meet your first flight of the day—we’ve got us a real Cold War warrior in the house.’

  Ben walked in.

  ‘You look tired,’ Cecilia observed. ‘How’d it go with Akiko?’

  ‘Not the way you’re thinking. I was up all night reading through stuff. She’ll be over soon,’ he said, checking his watch. ‘Can you look after her?’

  ‘Call me mother hen.’

  ‘Thanks, Cecil.’

  Ben went straight into the paperwork for the flight. ‘Got a headset?’ he mumbled without looking at Tex, who signed off on the booking form and then pulled out a well-used headset from the Nike gym bag at his feet.

  ‘Why do I get the feeling you two know each other?’ Cecilia asked.

  ‘We’ve met.’ Ben turned and walked out, Tex following. ’You’re the last person I expected to see today.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘What’s the difference between yesterday and today?’

  ‘Wait till we’re airborne. So you’re a pilot. Curtis would have approved.’

  ‘Who the hell cares?’

  Fifteen minutes later they’d climbed out of the bay and the Otter was trimmed for straight and level flight 1000 feet over a calm fall sea. Sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, Tex reached behind him and pulled a gadget with a gauge and a needle on it from his bag. He waved it around the cockpit and passed it across the instrument panel. ‘Okay,’ he announced. ‘You’re clean.’

  ‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’ Ben asked.

  ‘You don’t have any idea what you’re involved in, do you?’ Tex asked, examining Ben’s face. ‘No, you don’t . . . After you left
yesterday I had a visit from a couple of NSA investigators. They’re snooping around, asking questions about Curtis and reminding me about the secrecy agreement I signed. I’m here to warn you. The NSA isn’t the kind of agency you want digging around in your life. The last time I had those fuckers in my face was September 2, 1983.’

  ‘The day after the Soviets blew KAL 007 out of the sky. Thanks for the heads up.’ Ben banked to take them out to the edge of the shelf where the turquoise water turned black.

  ‘What do you know about that flight?’ Tex asked.

  ‘I know that when a plane like a 747 weighing half a million pounds hits the water you get a slick of body parts and wreckage a couple miles long. I know that after 007 went down enough wreckage to suggest a Cessna might have crashed in the vicinity washed up on the beaches. I know that the wife of the Korean pilot took out extra life insurance on her husband before he left home because he told her that his next flight was going to be a particularly dangerous one and that he might not make it back. I know that a plane with the tail identification number HL7442—the number of the plane shot down by the Russians—arrived at Andrews Air Force Base in company with an RC-135 a couple weeks before the crash, and taxied to building 1752 operated by E-Systems, a US defense contractor that specializes in electronic warfare. Shall I go on?’

  Ben glanced down and saw several dark shadows in the shallow luminescent water. Tigers or hammerheads from the look of their size, a mauled loggerhead foundering between them.

  ‘When did you become such an expert on this?’

  ‘Someone loaned me a book on the subject.’

  ‘I suppose next you’re going to tell me one of the more bizarre conspiracy theories—that the US Air Force shot 007 down to cover an air battle that took place over Sakhalin Island?’